


how is babby formed?

by hanktalkin



Series: CON SCIENCE [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi, Parenthood, Seasonal, Team Talon (Overwatch), labor complications, non-traditional family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 05:07:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16010909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanktalkin/pseuds/hanktalkin
Summary: Sometimes a family isn’t a mom, a dad, and a kid. Sometimes it’s four moms, a ghost dad, and a famous French ballet dancer.





	how is babby formed?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [palliris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/palliris/gifts).



> For knife who encouraged more to Talon Trio baby

The world outside was so green it hurt to look at. Spring had a stranglehold on the mountains like no other, drawing out bugs, worms, Moira and Zeigler since they seemed far more predisposed to romantic walks around the mountainside than actually attending to their patient. Sombra let out an overly prolonged sigh, gazing at the distant town that was so cute she might vomit.

“If you are bored, _cherie,_ feel free to roam our extensive wilderness,” Widow said as she flipped a page in her book. “God knows there’s plenty to go around.”

“And leave you all alone _mi araña?_ ” Sombra asked, lolling head back against the wicker chair. “Perish the thought! I would never do something so ridiculously irresponsible.”

“Ah yes. Because you are such good company to begin with.” Widow didn’t look up from her book. “All this brooding instead of pleasant conversation. You are like a child when the television won’t turn on, but instead of going outside to play, you pester everyone else until they mope along with you.”

“Yeesh,” Sombra grunted. “That’s a bit harsh. There are subtler ways of telling me to scram.”

Instead of waiting for an apology that wouldn’t come, Sombra slipped off her chair and wormed her way to the edge of Widow’s bed. It was meticulously clean—snow white sheets and a hand-stitched quilt that Zeigler laundered every day. Sombra propped her chin the corner of the mattress.

“Certainly you can pry yourself away long enough for me to finish my book,” Widow asked, tilting her head down at her. “The others certainly have.”

“Yeah well, Doc Squared is too busy looking longingly into each others eyes to do anything _but_ go on a walk, and Smokey’s out on a snack craze. Usually I’m down for a food run but he takes it to places I do _not_ wanna end up.” Sombra suppressed thinking about Reaper; living incognito had not been good for his eating habits, apparently since the local fauna didn’t have as… _nutritious_ a soul as an equivalent human being. Once they came out of hiding, they’d have to find a more sustainable source for Reaper’s condition, but that was a problem for another day. “So you’re stuck with me, baby mama. Your loyal bodyguard.”

Absently, Widow’s free hand came to rest on the slight swell of her stomach. “How chivalrous of you. We both appreciate it.”

Sombra hauled herself up so she was sitting atop the quilt. “Hey, no matter what, that kid’s going to have a good _tía_.”

“As much as I appreciate Zeigler and O’Deorain’s work, I would hardly refer either of them with that familiarity.”

“I was talking about me, _cariña_.”

For some reason, that made Widowmaker lower her book with a slight crease in her brow: the closest thing to concern Widow ever showed. She blinked slowly at Sombra. “Why would you be ‘Auntie’ to our child?”

Sombra’s smirk fell somewhat, only well-trained habit keeping it in place. “Well, _our_ child is a bit of a stretch…”

But Widow’s jaw was as set as her perfectly postured back. “This is baby belongs to all of us. You, me, Reaper. No more no less.”

“Tch.” Sombra turned, finding difficulty holding Widow’s gaze. They’d never broached the subject, what with planning their escape from Talon and settling into the safehouse taking up a good chunk of the past months. But that didn’t mean Sombra had her own ideas about what the new baby meant. “Doesn’t exactly work like that.”

“Sombra,” Widow said, dragging Sombra’s eyes back.

Sombra opened her mouth, but nothing convincing was going to come out. It’s not the thought of the kid didn’t light something off in her chest, sparking like a defunct cloak field, but somehow she couldn’t make the final leap into _things are going to turn out OK._

“Well,” she said wryly. “I’m going to be something alright. Just not…C’mon Widow, you know I don’t exactly fit into that mold.”

“And I do?” Widow arched a brow.

“No but you’re the one who’s…” Sombra made an incomprehensible gesture at Widow’s stomach. “…I’m just not…do you really think this kid is going to look at me the same way they look at you?”

“Sombra,” Widow repeated, and this time she lowered her book and reached for Sombra’s elbow. “You’re going to be a mother. And we’re going to do our best.”

Complaints of poor matronly role models and lack of a decent upbringing died on Sombra’s lips. She slipped her hand over Widow’s, and grudgingly allowed herself to be convinced.

“Hah. Alright. Thanks for telling me the good news.”

* * *

“I had a rather poor relationship with my mother,” Moira told her once, when the wildflowers grew and the last of the white was chased to the highest peaks.

Sombra didn’t ask what got her on about it. Widow probably told Reaper who told Moira who thought she was some sage dealer of wisdom when it came to absent parental figures. Sombra rolled her eyes.

“Are you telling me I should be grateful I didn’t have one?” She tapped her game of holographic solitaire. Even if they weren’t on the run from a terrorist organization, it was horribly unrealistic to get an internet connection out here. Most coverage plans don’t include literal mountains.

“No,” Moira said.

“No?” Sombra flipped over a heart. “Then do tell me what else I’m suppose to glean here.”

“That the bar is very low.”

“Ah,” Sombra sorted. “Thanks for that.”

It was going to be a long sabbatical.

* * *

But still shorter than it should have been.

It was so damn cold in the house and you’d think pacing for the last four hours would have warmed Sombra up by now but! Nope! She kept walking and walking and the pained sounds from inside the room were not making her heart beat any slower.

Reaper just sat there. She wanted him to yell at her, tell her to stop jittering—be his usual petulant self because that at least would be _normal_. But he just sat

and smoked

and Widow kept screaming.

Every time things seemed to die out, a flutter of what could be described as “hope” only in the loosest sense would flicker in Sombra’s spine, only to be iceblasted back into oblivion as Widow got enough air back into her lungs to start it up again. It was like being in an abusive relationship with a horror movie soundtrack.

They kept like that for what felt like days, the only sign that this hell would end being the ever so slow decrescendo as the spectacle crept into the fifth hour. When the cottage was blessedly— _finally_ —silent, the door opened a crack, and the agents perked like starved dogs.

Zeigler slipped out of the bedroom, her hair a mess and her eyes devoid of anything but exhaustion. But, at the very least, they didn’t hold an apology.

“She’s better,” Zeigler said, before Sombra could demand anything of her. “We’re going to need her to wake back up to keep going, but it seems like we’ve stabilized her enough.”

“Are you sure about that?” Reaper said, a thousand cutting words he’d rather say to the doctor and refraining.

She turned to him. “The baby is nearly two months early. I’m not sure of anything.”

Another ten minutes was spent in the hall before Zeigler retreated into the safety of the bedroom—a foul order escaping in the brief time the door hung open. She’d failed to reassure them anything in the long term but…Widow was alive. Maybe she wouldn’t get to rest for long, but at least that was something.

“Sit down Sombra,” Reaper said, like he wasn’t aware how close they’d come. So perfectly calm. God she hated him sometimes. When she didn’t move, he came over and put a hand on her shoulder. “She’s going to be alright. She’s survived worse—”

“Shut up,” Sombra said as she turned around and buried her face in his chest. “Just…shut up.”

He sat back on the bench, her still clinging to his chest like a pathetic little monkey. Widow’s labor wouldn’t be over for another seven hours, and in that time he didn’t breath another word; just left one hand in her hair and pretended not to notice the tears of relief on her cheeks.

* * *

Between changing and sleeping and running out for clean water, it was a whole day before the three of them could actually sit down in a room together and not pass out. The baby, bitty little thing that he was, slept easily in Widow’s arms now that Moira had confirmed he had no other complications (besides showing up a little early to the party.)

Sombra idly traced the tiny patch of hair on the top of his head with a nail. “Funny. Thought he might come out blue. Or at the very least half ghost.”

From Sombra’s favorite chair, Reaper made a grunt that might have either been exasperation or resigned amusement depending on how good you are at reading his moods. Since Sombra held PhD in Reyes, she knew it was a little of both.

“Indeed,” Widow said as she cast a glance down at the fist wrapped around her finger. “How very fortunate that he didn’t turn out a freak of nature.”

“Yup! Though we could have given him some good names if he was.” Sombra tapped a finger to her chin. “Something like…Casper? Nah, not _azul_ enough. Inky? How about Boo Berry?”

Reaper growled that cute little noise he makes when rolling his eyes. Sombra smirked.

“What? Am I not taking this seriously enough?” She slid easily over Widow’s legs, perfecting the art of being effortlessly delicate while pretending she couldn’t care less. She landed on the other side of the bed and gave Reaper a nudge. “I can be serious. I got some serious baby names up here. For example: I’ve always been fond of the name Jack.”

Reaper groaned. “God I hate you.”

“I agree with Reaper on this one,” Widow distantly from her pile of pillows. “Perhaps this is better left up to the adults in the room.”

Sombra crossed her arms over her chest, kicking Reaper lightly in the foot again. “Fine. You got any better ideas Gabe?”

Reaper’s response was slow, assured, the way he would analyze and categorize how to take a target in front of him. Then, he very slowly and assuredly said, “…I think we should call him Spike.”

“ _Oh mon Dieu_ ,” Widow groaned. “You are naming our child after a vampire from daytime television?”

“What? Hell no.” Reaper actually sounded offended. “Like from Cowboy Bebop.”

Sombra burst out laughing, and Widow glared at the both of us. “You two are _atrocious_. If I must, _I_ will choose his name, and it will resemble something vaguely close to an actual human being.”

Still stifling her laughs with a gloved hand, Sombra rolled off the bed and went to go hang off Reaper’s chair. She wasn’t sure what was better: the absolute utter indignation on Widow’s face, or the face that the baby seemed to be smiling because of it. Little tyke knew what was up even in his sleep.

Half in the windowsill, half digging into Reaper’s shoulder, she stage-whispered, “ _for the record, I think Spike is fantastic name._ ”

Reaper murmured back, “ _think we can outvote her?_ ”

Sombra wasn’t sure, but she pretty sure she heard the French version of _despicable_ slip into the warm air of their overly-stuffed bedroom.

* * *

“See this _chacho_? Everything the light touches is our Kingdom.” Sombra bounced the baby a little higher, giving him a sweeping view of the new crested snow. The latest blizzard had passed in the night, preserving everything in something so soft and delicate it was almost enough to make you forget the cold.

Almost wasn’t enough though, as Zeigler had told her multiple times while wrapping the baby in more blankets than he had clothes; and even then it was only after making Sombra triple promise that she’d only take him out for a few minutes.

She was glad she had; if not for her own cabin fever than for letting the kid get his first taste of the outside world. But, as she slipped the heavily padded bundle back into in her arms, she felt a niggling at the back of her mind. It took her a minute, but she realized that what caused.

“Hm. I just made a Lion King reference and no one chewed me out for it.” She booped the baby on the nose. “I guess there’re advantages to getting some time with just you ‘n me, Marius.”

The boy’s new name fit snuggly on her tongue, situating her back into a reality where everything had turned out OK. Briefly, a sudden irrational fear spiked through her over the lack of supervision; like being his only caretaker would make her forget how to hold a baby and drop him into the snow, but it quickly passed. She looked down at Marius once again.

“Guess it’s just you ‘n me out here, huh? No one else’ll brave the cold.”

Marius let out an, “uh!” in answer.

It would be weeks before he’d be able to see her properly, and months before he’d be capable of recognizing her, but something in the way those big ole’ eyes sparkled up at her made her almost think that he…knew.

She smiled, a thumb brushing aside one of the dark curls that already had started to sprout on his head.

“Just you and me _mi hijo_. You and me.”


End file.
